


Ink

by PlacesBetween



Category: Sons of Liberty (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Founding Fathers in love, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlacesBetween/pseuds/PlacesBetween
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in hiding, John Hancock muses over all he has lost, and the one thing he has gained.  Takes place during Part 2 of Sons of Liberty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink

**Author's Note:**

> This fic blends historic fact with fiction. Since I am writing about the fictionalized version of events, I decided to go with the mini-series canon when it conflicts with the actual facts. This includes having Sam and John stay at a house Revere knows of in Lexington instead of the home Hancock was raised in (in reality, they were not in hiding, though they were keeping their distance from Boston).
> 
> Huge thanks to Ashley for the beta.

John wakes in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by unfamiliar things. His body tenses as he remembers once again why he is here, and then relaxes, when over the sounds of the crackling fire he hears Sam downstairs. He doesn't know why, but the thought that he isn't alone comforts him. 

All of his life, people have prompted a desire to please in him. To pretend and to smile. To say and do the right things at the right time. It's a gift that has served him well, and one he never would have exchanged for what he sacrificed in return. An empty home in the night translated to full warehouses and lavish parties. Even an invite to see the King be crowned, a story he shared with Sam earlier that night in complete honesty. No careful words, and pleasing tone present in his admission.

His uncle had taught him well, admonishing him for moments of weakness much like the one he had experienced with Sam. He knew how ill advised it was for others to see him that way. John's position had demanded respect and authority, two things which were impossible to attain if people were doubting his wits. It was logical to wait until doors were closed to breathe freely again.

But none of that matters anymore. Here, with Sam, holed up in a small cottage on the run from British law, there is no fake smile needed. He's free to be himself, robbed of home, possession and dignity. He never doubted how frightening that feeling would be. The comfort though, is new and unexpected.

He makes his way down the narrow staircase, stopping in the threshold. Sam clearly hasn't attempted sleep this night. The fire is nearly out, but Sam seems to take no notice, focused on the pages and pages of what John assumes are more of his political rantings spread out before him on the table.

“Can't sleep?” Sam's voice breaks the stillness. He sounds tired, but unconcerned; typical Sam.

“This bed isn't exactly up to my standards,” John quips, causing Sam to roll his eyes. “And you?”

“I've never needed much sleep,” Sam responds with a shrug. 

John stands, stretching his muscles, before sauntering over to Sam. “Everybody needs sleep. Even leaders of great revolutions.” 

“I'm not a leader,” Sam insists and now John must roll his eyes too. 

“Your actions and words say otherwise.” John glances over one of the papers, terms like 'liberty' and 'justice' catching his eye. Nobody would ever accuse Samuel Adams of silence, that was for certain. 

“I'm doing what must be done. _We're_ doing what must be done. We cannot allow the loyalist point of view to take precedence over ours in the papers.” Sam's grip tightens on his pen, his eyes glued to John's as if waiting for a dissenting opinion. 

John does not have one. His emotions, his true emotions, take him in quite the opposite direction, a fondness for Sam settling in his belly. John leans forward, loosening the pen from Sam's grip, his fingers lightly grazing over Sam's. “You have ink all over your hands.”

To John's surprise, Sam does not pull away. Their eyes catch each other, the flames from the fire casting a shadowy glow on Sam's face that makes him difficult to read. John knows he is at a disadvantage. 

The moment is broken by the sounds of a carriage outside. Sam stands quickly, moving to the window with one hand on his pistol. Relief washes over them both as the soft sounds of feminine laughter are heard. 

John tucks his shaking hands underneath his thighs, recalling Sam's assertion that he feels none of the fear that is coursing through John's veins just then. When Sam turns around though, he knows his attempts at reconstructing that easy facade, even just for a moment, have failed. Sam sees right through him. John wonders if there was ever a time when Sam didn't. 

“It's okay,” Sam says carefully, walking back. “We're safe here. If anything happens, the men will warn us.”

Sam rolls up his papers, putting them safely away and stoking the fire before sitting across from John once again. They stay silent for some time, John watching the fire, and Sam cleaning his pistol. John breathes in, moving his now still hand to brush the hair out his face, his unkempt nature another reminder of his new status as a fugitive. 

Sam's own hands dart forward, grasping John's. His long, calloused fingers run over John's, shooting sparks of electricity up his spine. “What...what are you doing?”

Sam smiles at him, a bright conspiratorial smile that John is sure he will never forget for the rest of his days. He taps a small spot on John's index finger where the ink on Sam's own hand has now rubbed off. 

“You have ink on your hands.”

“Thanks to you.” John pulls back this time. He knows his eyes are wide and when he speaks, his voice is unsteady. It only makes Sam smile wider. 

“We all have to get our hands dirty sometimes, Mr. Hancock.”

John's thoughts are racing in every direction, trying to decide where to settle. His usual grip on logic seems to have escaped him completely, and suddenly he understands what Sam meant when he proclaimed that he felt more alive now than ever before. John may be frightened of death and loss and his uncertain future, but of Sam, he is not at all afraid.

“Is that an invitation?” John searches Sam's face; all too aware what a dangerous game he is playing. It's one he hasn't engaged in since Harvard, another sacrifice to the merchant facade. 

Sam turns his back to John, heading for the staircase that leads to the master bedroom. John only has a moment to worry he has overstepped himself before Sam speaks. 

“Are you coming then? Or do you need to send for permission from the King?”

John goes to where Sam is waiting, looking up at him from the step below, a soft, nervous smile playing at his lips. “I have a notion, sir, that after tonight, I will never seek permission from the likes of England or King George again.”

Sam's ink stained fingers brush over his cheek, trailing down to his lips, before taking his hand. “Good then. We'll make a rebel of you yet.”

At the top of the stairs, Sam kisses him, each press of lips serving as a promise for a future so unlike the one John had spent his life imagining. 

Standing in a stranger's home, with nothing more than the clothes on his back, looking at Sam, John considers that maybe, just maybe, it's time to trade one sacrifice for another.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to follow me on tumblr: Placesbetween
> 
> And I am all for prompts for this pairing, so if you have any, send them my way. I am especially looking for ideas for something slightly longer.


End file.
